


the girl in the pink wig

by alexjulies



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28196772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexjulies/pseuds/alexjulies
Summary: “I worked hard on that routine,” Carrie tells Nick afterwards. “Julie’s no friend.”She wishes she could feel happy for Julie. If she’s singing again, that’s a good thing. Maybe she’s finally starting to heal.But all Carrie feels is betrayal. She spends hours rehearsing, gets blister after blister on her ankles from working through the choreography, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.She just wants to be enough.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 58
Collections: jatpdaily secret santa 2020





	the girl in the pink wig

**Author's Note:**

> written for laura | juliesdreambox for jatp secret santa 2020.
> 
> an exploration of the friendship between carrie, julie, and flynn. canon compliant in that it follows/mentions canon events, but the backstory and pre-canon aspects are purely headcanon. netflix, please give us a season 2 so we can have answers. 
> 
> laura, i hope you like it. <3

It’s after midnight when Carrie hears her phone buzz on her bedside table.

She plans on ignoring it, but it buzzes a second time. A third. With the fourth notification, she sits up and switches her bedside lamp on.

It’s the week before Christmas. She’s in Colorado with her father - their yearly winter break trip to ski and be together as a family, although she usually spends more time alone than with her dad. But his work is important, and _sometimes chasing dreams requires hard work and hard sacrifices,_ and she understands that. She shares the same dream, after all.

She tells herself that the loneliness allows for the space of the music she wants to create. Pain creates beauty, and her music is going to be a beautiful thing.

Carrie reaches for her phone, but pauses when she realizes fresh snow is falling outside. She watches it for a long moment, smiling softly at the calm that floods through her. It’s one of her favorite things - the way the snowfall quiets the world around her, both chilling the air and wrapping the earth in a pillowy, white blanket that gleams in the moonlight.

Her phone buzzes a fifth time. Carrie looks down to read a series of texts from Julie.

The peace around her dissipates. 

_Are you awake?_ _  
_ _Can you talk?_ _  
_ _My mom’s sick. Really sick._  
_The doctors don’t think she has that long left._ _  
_ I don’t know what to do.

Tears are already in her eyes when she clicks Julie’s name to call her. Julie answers after the first ring, and Carrie speaks immediately. “Julie. Julie, I’m so - I’m so _sorry_. I wish I knew what to…”

Carrie trails off, swallowing around the lump in her throat. Julie’s crying, too, she knows - can hear it in the quiet, uneven hitch of her breathing over the line.

Softly, Carrie clears her throat and offers, “I’m here, Julie. Whatever you need. Okay?”

Julie doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t hang up, either. Carrie keeps her on the line, eventually shutting her lamp off again and laying back down on her side. Pulling the blankets up to her chin, she quietly asks, “Did you talk to Flynn?”

“Y-yeah,” Julie whispers. “Yeah, I did. But she hasn’t - I just.”

_She hasn’t lost her mom. You have._

“Yeah,” Carrie says softly, shutting her eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

She doesn’t hang up. Waits to fall asleep until after she hears Julie’s breathing even out over the line.

//

Carrie tells her father the next morning.

They’re headed home before sunset.

//

When they’re back in California, their first stop is the Molinas’ house. Her dad immediately finds Ray and Rose in the kitchen. Carrie listens as they start talking in hushed whispers - pauses for only a moment before the thick sound of her father’s voice is too much for her to handle.

She heads upstairs instead. Finds Julie in her room on her bed, curled on her side with her back to the door. Flynn’s laying next to her, Julie’s head tucked beneath her chin, and her fingers comb slowly through the ends of Julie’s curls as she looks up and meets Carrie’s eyes.

“Hey,” Carrie greets softly.

Flynn waves her over, her fingers returning to the ends of Julie’s hair right after. Julie doesn’t roll over to face her, but Carrie steps into the room, anyway. Curls up against Julie’s back and slings an arm over her middle, hand resting against Flynn’s sweater.

Their parents are downstairs talking. Carrie, Julie, and Flynn are silent.

Flynn meets Carrie’s eyes over Julie’s head and Carrie just _knows_. It’s bad. It’s really bad.

She hugs Julie tighter.

//

Rose is gone three weeks later.

//

Julie comes back to school a month into the fall semester. Her teachers all look at her with the same sad expression, offer their sympathies and condolences, and Carrie watches as this shell of her friend walks through the halls.

“I don’t know how to be there for her,” Carrie admits one afternoon, standing with Flynn at her locker. “I feel like I’m doing it wrong. I want to be supportive, but I don’t want to pity her. She’s getting that from all the teachers. I can tell she hates it.”

Flynn nods, switching out her books. “I know. She’s dealing, and we can’t decide that for her. She has to process it in her own way. So I think all we really _can_ do is let her know we’re here when she needs us.”

“Yeah,” Carrie agrees. “You’re right. We can do that. Maybe music class will help.”

Flynn doesn’t look convinced, but Carrie feels confident. Music is a part of Julie, one that she shares - _shared_ with her mother, and she won’t just let that go. Carrie’s sure of it.

//

Julie skips music class that day.

She skips it every single day for a month.

//

Flynn is supportive. Reassures Carrie that Julie will find her way back to music in time, that they can’t rush it for her, but Carrie feels her resolve to be quietly supportive shrinking every single day.

Music is _everything_ to all three of them, she knows that, and now Julie’s hiding from it. It doesn’t make sense. How could Julie keep all that pain locked in? Doesn’t she know that beautiful things come from the greatest heartbreaks?

“You have to come to class today,” Carrie finally says over lunch, watching Julie pick at her tray of food.

“I’m not going.”

“Julie,” Carrie says again, her voice hardened. “You’re coming to music class. You’re going to lose your spot, and music is important to you. It was important to your mom, and…”

“Don’t,” Julie cuts in. She looks up from underneath her ballcap and her eyes are _dangerous_ \- alive with anger and burdened with grief. “Don’t talk about her.”

Carrie swallows. Softens her expression and continues, “She wouldn’t want you to skip class like this.”

“Carrie,” Flynn warns, but Julie’s already shaking her head.

“Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not playing.”

It’s a win, Carrie thinks. She’ll take the victories where she can.

//

Carrie remembers a sleepover from the summer before their freshman year. They’d all gotten into the music program, and had chosen to celebrate by eating too much ice cream and giggling until sunrise. They spent hours in Trevor’s makeshift home studio, singing and jamming to their favorite songs.

“Can you imagine if the three of us made music together for _real_? It’d be awesome,” Flynn had laughed, messing with the controls at the soundboard.

“Right? We could totally do something,” Julie agreed.

Carrie felt her whole body warm through. “I’d love that. I don’t think I could ever do a solo-type thing. I’d want a group.”

“You’d be awesome either way, Carrie,” Julie had replied, the smile on her lips as genuine as the joy in her eyes.

Carrie didn’t agree, but she thanked Julie anyway.

//

It was during the second semester of freshman year that Carrie spoke with Ms. Harrison about forming a group.

“Being in a group is hard work,” Ms. Harrison cautioned, but she’d smiled. “Are you up for that?”

“Of course I am,” Carrie replied. “I can do it.’

Dirty Candi was formed within days. She never asked Flynn or Julie to be part of it. Julie had always written her own music, and she knew Flynn wouldn’t join without Julie.

Gradually, she’d spent less and less time with Julie and Flynn. Choreography rehearsals and vocal lessons occupied most of her weekends. She missed her friends, but seeing them at school was enough.

Her dad had constantly encouraged her, telling her she wouldn’t regret pursuing a group dynamic over a solo one. 

Even now, several months later, he still says the same things.

//

Sometimes, she wants to ask her dad if that means he doesn’t think she’s good enough on her own.

Everyone at school knows who her father is. They all assume he’s the reason she was an early acceptance to the music program. 

The rumors hardened her; she slowly built walls around her heart, changed the cadence of her speaking voice so that her sound would be more distinctive. Easier to pick out in a crowd.

She’d picked out a pink wig online and tried it on the day it had arrived.

“What do you think, Dad?” she’d asked one afternoon, showing him the full outfit. “The pink’s cool, right?”

Trevor had only glanced up from his phone for a moment. “Beautiful, honey. I like it.”

“Did you listen to the song?”

“Yeah,” he’d replied, smiling. “Yeah, I did. It was really good. Catchy. I’m sure you girls will have a great routine to go with it.”

She’d wanted to ask what he thought of the lyrics. Wanted to ask if he’d liked any of the musical choices she’d made for the track. She already knew the choreography was excellent - she’d wanted his opinion on the _music_.

//

She stops asking her dad for his opinion after the fifth near-identical exchange.

_Chasing dreams requires hard work and hard sacrifices,_ she tells herself.

She wonders if forging a real relationship with her was an easy sacrifice for her father or a hard one.

She doesn’t ask.

//

It’s months of the same routine. Months of going to school, months of watching Julie go through the day with as little interaction with the world around her as possible, months of sitting in music class and Julie never sharing with the group. Never even being asked by the teacher to share.

“Why doesn’t Ms. Harrison ask you to play?” Carrie finally asks one day.

Flynn shoots Carrie a look. “Because she understands, Carrie.”

“But that’s not how this program works. That’s not how _music_ works,” Carrie tries, but Flynn just scoots closer to Julie’s side and Julie doesn’t say a word.

That’s when it started, she thinks. Their dissolution. The rift that developed between them, something broken and jagged and painful.

Sometimes, Carrie thinks she should feel bad for it. Thinks that maybe she should have asked Flynn to join her group, thinks that maybe she shouldn’t have pushed Julie so hard.

Sometimes she thinks she shouldn’t regret anything at all.

//

The fight happens seven months to the day after Rose dies.

“What if you and Flynn and I wrote something? We could share it together in class and you’d be able to keep your seat. Would that make it easier for you to get back into music again?” Carrie asks.

They’re in Julie’s bedroom, working on their summer reading assignments. Carrie can tell Julie is lost in her thoughts, and she wants to pull Julie from that. Wants to try and keep her friend from sinking deeper into her depression.

(She remembers Flynn telling her Julie was seeing Dr. Turner three times a week. She wonders if that’s still the case. 

Flynn doesn’t speak to her much anymore.)

“Why don’t we try?” Carrie suggests again.

“Nah,” Julie replies, her voice even.

Deadened.

“Julie,” Carrie sighs. “Come on. You’ve got to get back into it. You’re too talented to…”

Julie tosses her pencil down to her notebook, looking up at Carrie with dull eyes. “I don’t need to hear this from you. I get it enough from my dad, from my aunt, from my _therapist_. We’re studying for English. Not music.”

For a moment, Carrie considers dropping the discussion like she has so many times before. But there’s something different about it this time - something that Carrie can’t push away again.

“I don’t understand you, Julie,” Carrie scoffs, shaking her head.

The look on Julie’s face quickly shifts from apathy to anger. “I don’t need you to _understand_ , Carrie. This isn’t about you.”

“I’m not making it about myself,” Carrie argues. “I’m just saying that music is _such_ a big part of you, and you’re just - you’re just letting it go! You’re letting it die, Julie! That’s selfish.”

Julie _laughs_. “I’m selfish? Really? You want to do this right now? My _mother_ died, Carrie. She’s the whole reason music is - _was_ such a big part of my life. And I lost her.”

Carrie takes a breath. Bites her tongue.

“What,” Julie presses.

“You aren’t the only person who’s lost someone, Julie. You aren’t the only person who’s lost her mom. I _know_ it’s hard, but you can’t live like this forever! You aren’t even living.”

“That’s really easy for you to say when you barely knew your mom in the first place.”

Carrie feels the words like a punch to the gut. “I - Julie, that’s not…”

Julie clenches her jaw and looks down at her notebook. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

Quietly, Carrie says, “No, it wasn’t. But - neither is you going to class every day and not having to participate. The rest of us are working hard to keep our seats. How long are you going to get to skirt by while the rest of us actually do what’s expected of us?”

Julie doesn’t look up.

“Your mom wouldn’t want you to give it up,” Carrie continues. “She’d…”

“She’s _dead_ ,” Julie rasps, meeting Carrie’s eyes. “There isn’t anything she wants. She’s gone.”

Carrie’s jaw locks for a moment. Then, “I know she died. But _you_ didn’t. And it’s disrespectful to her memory for you to act like this.”

Eventually, Julie says, “I think you should go.”

“Julie, I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help!” Julie shouts, throwing her pen across the room. “I don’t want it! What I _do_ want is for you to leave.”

Carrie pauses for a moment, but gathers her things and stands from the bed. With a soft laugh, she mutters, “I’ve got to get to rehearsal, anyway. Some of us actually have to participate in the program you get to coast through.”

//

She starts the next school year choosing to make music her number one priority. With that, she needs to keep up the persona, so she buys a few new outfits, starts dating the star athlete, and focuses solely on school and performing.

It’s made easier by the fact that Julie’s avoiding her now. She routinely gets dirty looks from Flynn, so figures she’s been told about the fight. 

She pretends losing her friends doesn’t hurt. 

(It does.)

She focuses on writing songs about herself. 

(But they aren’t about her. Not really. They’re about the girl in the pink wig.)

//

A month into the school year, Ms. Harrison finally asks Julie to play.

Julie takes off running from the room.

She hears herself ask if they should clap, and wonders when the walls around her heart became covered in thorns.

//

That afternoon, she overhears Ms. Harrison talking with the principal about Julie. They’re going to fill Julie’s spot with someone else.

She runs her fingers over her phone in her purse, but doesn’t pick it up. It’s only muscle memory, picking up her phone to text Julie, and one that she tells herself she needs to forget.

_Besides_ , she thinks, _I told her all along this would happen. I tried to help._

//

When Julie sings again, she’s surrounded by holograms that captivate the entire school. She performs an impromptu concert right after the Dirty Candi routine Carrie spent weeks perfecting.

“I worked hard on that routine,” Carrie tells Nick afterwards. “Julie’s no friend.”

She wishes she could feel happy for Julie. If she’s singing again, that’s a good thing. Maybe she’s finally starting to heal. 

But all Carrie feels is betrayal. She spends hours rehearsing, gets blister after blister on her ankles from working through the choreography, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.

She just wants to be enough.

//

She can’t help but watch the performance from Julie’s garage party over and over. She doesn’t understand the hologram thing, tells herself that _Julie needed a gimmick_ , but the music is good. Julie’s voice is better than she remembers.

She finds out Julie’s band is playing the Orpheum. She wishes they were in a better place so she could congratulate Julie.

She wishes they were in a better place so she could feel _genuinely_ proud of Julie. Not what she feels now - a pride for her friend that’s cloaked in shame and the incessant whisper of _you are inadequate._

//

Her dad gets them into the Orpheum. Sitting here, in the VIP section surrounded by other musicians her father knows, makes it easy to feed into the bitterness she feels.

“Been here before,” she says, because it’s easier to tear Julie down than to let the words of her speech soak through her.

_Don’t give up. Step into your greatness. Stand tall._

But the music - something about it softens the roughest edges of her heart. Seeing the _life_ in her friend’s eyes again, watching her thrive in a way she hasn’t since that day in December, brings about the phantom ache of _that’s my friend and I’m proud of her._

_That’s my friend and I’m_ **_proud_ ** _of her._

When they’re finished performing and Julie’s left onstage alone, Carrie takes a breath and rips the thorns from the walls around her heart. She stands and claps for Julie, for her _friend_ , and lets pride wash over her.

It’s easier than she remembers.

//

That night, she texts her.

_Saw you at the Orpheum. You were great. I’m glad you’re making music again, Julie._

Julie doesn’t answer until almost two in the morning, but when she does, it’s a - 

_Thanks, Carrie. Me too. <3 _

It feels like a step toward something resembling friendship again.

It feels like hope.

It feels like enough.


End file.
